The Endicott Evil Page 23

  Mrs. Barber gave a shy smile. “Will ya say hello ta Mr. McPherson for me?”

  “Consider it done.”

  I followed Colin outside and around the corner, walking the length of the house with thoughts of this case, Charlotte Hutton, and Paul fighting for attention in my head, and as a result walked right into Colin. “Oh!” I muttered foolishly.

  “You must stop fretting so and have some faith in me,” he said, and his voice no longer sounded patient or understanding. “I am trying very hard to make sure Mr. Nettle does not end up hanging for a crime I do not think he committed, and you are ever mentally elsewhere.” He shot his arm up. “Did you even notice that we are standing at the very spot where Miss Adelaide died?” I looked up and realized that we were indeed standing just beneath the window where she had fallen. “I need you present, Ethan, because every time I speak to someone in this infernal household, no one looks guiltier than that blasted Freddie Nettle.”

  Having thusly vented his own frustration, he quickly rounded on his heels and stalked off, cutting across the cobbled side yard toward the stables near the porte cochere. I gritted my teeth and cursed myself for not paying enough mind to what was happening, vowing to contribute to the solution of this case and to that of Charlotte Hutton as well. For it was that villainous woman, more than anything else, that I knew most enflamed his mind.

  Before we could reach the stable, Mr. McPherson came out with a short ladder on one beefy shoulder and a bow saw in his other hand. For a man in his later forties or early fifties he was in remarkable shape. I suspected it would amuse him to know that Colin was hoisting weights around to accomplish a form that Mr. McPherson achieved in the normal course of his day.

  “Mr. McPherson . . .” Colin called out, quickening his pace. “Might I have a word with you?”

  The man pushed his cap up off his forehead and gazed at us. “I ain’t sure what else I can tell ya,” he answered as we caught up to him.

  “You needn’t worry,” Colin said, and I was relieved to hear that his voice was once again calm and steady. “Why don’t you let me tell you something instead. The other day you helped me set your tallest ladder against the side of the house all the way up to Miss Adelaide’s room. . . .”

  “So we did.” He gave a soft chuckle and I was certain he must be remembering the sight of Colin awkwardly disappearing in through the window.

  “The rails of your ladder were an exact fit for a set of grooves in the paint just below the window. I am quite certain your ladder has been rested against that same spot repeatedly over the past several months. Have you been working up there?”

  He scratched his forehead with a meaty paw as he peered at Colin. “A couple a times. You saw the winda was replaced. I had ta caulk the outside and paint it after puttin’ it in.” He shook his head and rearranged his cap. “I ain’t much fer heights, but it had ta be done.”

  “Yes, you said that a bird had hit the window some time ago and cracked the glass?”

  “S’right.”

  “But you found no carcass on the cobbles below. Were there any smears of blood on the window?”

  “Blood?”

  “On the window.”

  He shook his head after a moment. “No.”

  “Could you see a point of impact? A central place where the bird had actually struck the glass out of which the cracks appeared.”

  Mr. McPherson nodded at once. “’At I did.” And I could tell he was pleased to be able to say so. “I could see right where the little bugger had hit. Left a nick in the glass and there were several small cracks rose up from there, but one of ’em went clear across to the far side a the pane. So the winda had ta be replaced.”

  “A nick in the glass?” Colin pressed. “How big? The size of my thumb . . . ?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head and scrunched up his face as though trying to remember. “Not that big. It were jest a small thing. Maybe like a pebble or somethin’ small. . . .” and even as he said the words his eyes drifted past us to the cobbled drive running along the side of the house where a velvety coating of emerald moss and a thousand tiny stones filled the slender crevices between the brickwork. “Oh,” he said with sudden understanding. “You don’t think it were a bird at all. . . .” he added as he continued to stare toward the side drive before letting his eyes drift up to Miss Adelaide’s window.

  “I see that you and I have come to the same conclusion.” Colin spoke quietly, allowing a small, taut smile to ghost across his lips.

  “But why?” Mr. McPherson asked in the next moment. “I don’t understand why someone’d wanna be tossing rocks up at Miss Adelaide’s room. Why would someone do that?”

  Colin started walking toward the stable again, forcing Mr. McPherson and me to follow along behind him. “That is the question, isn’t it.”

  As we reached the stable Mr. McPherson finally slid the small ladder off his shoulder and leaned it up against the side of the building before setting the bow saw beside it. “I noticed some little divots along the outside a the winda when I was paintin’ it. Thought they were just wear. . . .” He shook his head and scowled, and I knew he meant it for himself. “That weren’t wear,” he scoffed. “That were somebody throwin’ a bunch a shite up there ta rattle the winda, weren’t it?”

  “To rattle the window . . .” Colin repeated thoughtfully as he began walking around the stable’s entry space where most of the equipment for the grounds and horses were kept, including several ladders of varying sizes, saws, and rakes all mounted to the far wall. “You are close, sir, but I believe the intent was to get Miss Adelaide’s attention, not merely to rattle her window.”

  “Her attention?”

  Colin spun around from his study of the paraphernalia hanging along the wall and looked directly at Mr. McPherson. “Where do you sleep at night?”

  The man looked startled. “Sleep? I go home. By the time it gets dark I go home. Got a bunch a kids I gotta look after.”

  “Yes, of course. I forgot that you’re a widower.”

  “Huh?” The man looked startled again, but I realized what Colin was referring to. “Who told you that my wife died?”

  “No one, Mr. McPherson. They didn’t need to. It was evident when Mr. Fischer ribbed you about your awareness of the comely Mrs. Barber. I have no doubt that a man such as yourself would never allow such an interest to be observed if he had a wife at home.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I loved my Mary, but she and me youngest died of a fever ’bout two years ago and left me with the other four. Still miss her, but I ain’t gonna deny that I notice Mrs. Barber.”

  Colin chuckled. “Then let me assure you that I believe she has noticed you as well.” In spite of his sun-darkened skin, I was certain a slight blush colored Mr. McPherson’s cheeks. “Tell me, does anyone in the household ever come out to the stable or ask to use any of the”—he gestured around at the abundance of tools—“equipment?”

  He shook his head and I was certain he was glad for the change of subject. “Nah. They’ve no reason to. It’s all mostly women workin’ here ’cept for Mr. Galloway, and I doubt that man’s had any sort a yard tool in his hand in the whole a his life.”

  Colin nodded. “And what about Mr. Nettle?”

  Mr. McPherson gave a smile. “Freddie were always good. Fit and smart. He used ta come out from time ta time and do some work, a bit a whittlin’ or fixin’ a piece a Miss Adelaide’s furniture when it needed somethin’. One time he sanded and waxed both a her bed tables when they was lookin’ sorrowful, and another time he made himself a small wooden bookcase ta hold books and papers he kept in the little room where he slept. He were good with his hands, that one. I didn’t mind him comin’ out and usin’ me stuff.”

  A sudden noise from the stalls where the horses were kept caught our attention, and not a moment later Mr. Fischer stepped out of the darkened hallway dragging a muslin tarp with a great pile of foul-smelling used hay atop it. “Well . . . !” His eyes lit up as
he spotted the three of us. “Didn’t know we had company.”

  “Hardly a visit,” Colin corrected as he glanced back to the contents of the tarp Mr. Fischer was pulling. “If we were interested in a social call, you can be certain we would not choose the day you sluice the stable to do it.”

  Mr. Fischer gave a hearty laugh as he continued to heft the contents out into the sunlight, bringing instantaneous relief to the air we were trying to breathe. “Well said, Mr. Pendragon. It isn’t everyone who gets the chance to appreciate the scents from a horse’s nether end.” He laughed again as he rubbed his hands against his breeches and walked back to us. “And what it is that brings you out here? Have you finally brought an end to this business about Miss Adelaide’s death?”

  Colin’s face curdled. “I have not. It remains regrettably obstinate in its conclusion, but I will get there.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Mr. Fischer offered before giving a sideways nod to Mr. McPherson. “Course, Denny and I aren’t privy to much since we work out here.” He gave a mild shrug. “Although I am the one who brought you to that clairvoyant lady’s house. I suppose that was helpful, wasn’t it?”

  “Lady Stuart,” I filled in for him. “Yes, it was a useful service indeed.”

  “Tell me something,” Colin spoke up as he continued to study Mr. Fischer, his brows remaining continuously furrowed. “Did Mr. Nettle always go inside Lady Stuart’s home when the three of you went there? Did he never stay out in the carriage?”

  He immediately shook his head. “Never. Miss Adelaide couldn’t have made it inside on her own, and the lady’s houseman is elderly himself. Besides, Freddie had to be there in case she needed him. But he always stayed in the kitchen. It’s not like he were allowed anywhere else in the house. He couldn’t listen to what the women were talkin’ about, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

  “So we have been told. . . .” Colin let his voice drift off with irritation.

  “Does anyone else have access to the stable?” I asked, going back to Colin’s earlier assertion. “Perhaps when either of you is ill?”

  Mr. Fischer laughed as he slid an amused glace at Mr. McPherson. “I’ve curried these horses even when I was too sick to keep so much as a morsel in me own gut. And there have been days I’ve taken one or both ladies out in the pouring rain even though my head was burnin’ with fever. So no . . .” He shook his head with another chuckle. “. . . Nobody else touches these horses or carriages without me.”

  “Not even Mr. Nettle?” Colin asked, and I imagined he was looking for some assurance, however small, that Freddie Nettle did not have free rein around the whole of Layton Manor and its grounds.

  “Certainly not Freddie.” Mr. Fischer smirked. “I never saw him show much of an affinity for the animals.”

  “Well, that is something,” Colin groused under his breath, though it made not the slightest bit of difference to the case. “Where do you sleep nights, Mr. Fischer? Do you stay here or do you have a room elsewhere?”

  “I rent a room out in Lower Holloway. I’ve had it for just over a year. It’s not much, but it suits me fine. I spend most of my time here anyway.”

  “As do we all,” Mr. McPherson agreed.

  “Were either of you ever called to do any work in Miss Adelaide’s room?” Colin asked.

  “Nah,” Mr. McPherson answered. “That were Mr. Nettle’s job. I already told ya he were good with his hands.”

  “Then are either of you aware that there is a false panel in the wainscoting in her room?”

  The two of them looked at each other and I could see they were startled. “It don’t surprise me.” Mr. McPherson was the first to answer again. “These old houses got all kinds a crazy shite build inta ’em.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me, either,” Mr. Fischer agreed. “Goes back to the days when the nobles were up ta no good. Not like now. . . .” He cocked a deliberate grin.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Colin said as he pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “You have both been very helpful, and we have taken up enough of your time.” He took a step back and signaled to me. “We must be off. We have another appointment to make.”

  I followed him outside before I asked, “What appointment?”

  “Maurice Evans is expecting us,” he said, as though I should know it already.

  “Whatever for?”

  “He has arranged for us to speak with Wynn Tessler. I may be making little headway in this blasted case, but I will not lose Charlotte Hutton.”

  “Wynn Tessler . . . ?!”

  “The man is waiting to be put to death,” Colin said, though I was already fully aware of that fact. “I should very much like to hear what he has to say about Mrs. Hutton now.”

  “What of Freddie Nettle?”

  Colin flicked a glare at me before picking up his pace toward the street. “At this point, in spite of my own declarations to the contrary, I am about to arrest Mr. Nettle myself.” He pulled away from me and I let him go, a fist curdling my belly as the magnitude of his words reverberated through my brain.

  CHAPTER 24

  The stench of the place was the first thing one noticed upon arrival. It was impossible to have it any other way. Even on a day like this one with a chilled breeze whistling along the streets, the stink would not be contained by the massive, four-story, granite, brick-and-cement structure. Newgate Prison had been standing on this corner for more than a hundred years, and there was nothing about its soot-blackened exterior, nearly windowless façade, or permanent reek that suggested it was anything other than what it was.

  Countless men and women had been housed and hung here over the course of that century for every crime from arson to high treason to horse stealing and murder. It was the latter that now brought us to this wretched place. Six men and one enfeebled boy ruthlessly slaughtered for the most heinous reason. But while Wynn Tessler waited in this unspeakable purgatory to be put to death for his part in that savagery, Charlotte Hutton remained unforgivably free.

  I trailed behind Colin and Maurice Evans, who were themselves following a great bear of a man who had been introduced as a senior guard. He easily stood over six feet and had a barrel of a chest that was so solid and menacing that even Colin looked almost diminutive in his wake. If there were a hell on earth I felt like I was visiting it.

  “How long did you say . . . ?” I heard Mr. Evans repeat to the warder as he led us down a narrow brick hallway, his head less than a foot below the curved stone ceiling.

  The man tugged mechanically at his wooly black beard as though actually giving the question some thought. “Ten minutes,” he finally said. “More than that tends ta get a bit fiddly. Doesn’t do anybody any good ta get a condemned man riled up.”

  “I cannot see why anyone should care,” Colin mumbled.

  “You’d care if you was watchin’ over ’em. Makes it that much harder for us when these nobs get riled up. Doesn’t make much sense bangin’ their heads together when they’re all gonna wind up at the end of a rope soon enough anyway.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Colin answered, his distaste at the sentiment evident. “But of course this is Yard business,” he reminded.

  “Bugger the Yard,” the man responded casually. “No offense, Mr. Evans. Your boys may throw ’em in here, but we’re the ones keepin’ ’em in line until their time’s up. Which means the rules inside Newgate belong ta us. So ya got ten minutes with yer man unless ya get him into a lather and then ya got less.” He turned as we reached a metal door covered with iron straps bolted along its width in a regular pattern, with a smaller sealed inner door, no bigger than a man’s hand, at its center. “You boys hearin’ me?”

  “You are the only one talking,” Colin answered with a smile so tight I doubted air could pass across his lips. “Now shall we?”

  The man’s eyes pinched ever so slightly before he reached out and unhooked the latch on the inner door, yanking it open. “It’s me, Renny,” he cal
led out. “Got the company for our distinguished Mr. Tessler.” He gave a soft snicker that none of us joined in on as he shut the little door.

  A moment later the jangle of multiple keys rattling about followed by a series of locks sliding free could be heard from what sounded like a considerable distance, which was obviously a testament to the thickness of the door before us. Just when it seemed we might never actually gain entry, the door finally began to draw open, moving at such a ponderous pace that our chaperone leaned forward and put his considerable girth against it. A plain room of medium size was slowly revealed, with a matching door on its opposite wall and two heavily barred windows astride it, though what they looked out upon I could not yet see.

  “We got ever’body locked down,” the man opening the door alerted us. I presumed he was Renny, though we were not introduced to either him or the other warder pacing the room, whose eyes were fixed on the two barred windows. “Go ahead and let him through,” he called over his shoulder to his compatriot.

  “I trust you boys will have a nice visit with yer friend.” Our escort chuckled, giving a wide grin that exposed far too many spaces where teeth should have been.

  “If you please . . .” Colin rebuked dismissively.

  The warder who had been pacing immediately stopped and set himself to releasing the copious locks upon the opposite door. As the last one slid back, he gripped a metal rod attached at the midway point of the door and leaned back with his far less considerable weight than our attendant until the door began to move.

  “Here, ya little runt, let me give ya a ruddy hand.” Our burly usher snickered as he stepped up and gripped the edge of the door with both hands so that between the two of them, it began to move more easily. A most wretched stink rolled out the moment the door was halfway open, reminding me of a mix of bad hygiene and inept plumbing. It was staggering in its strength, and I had to open my mouth slightly just as I did whenever I was forced to visit the morgue.

  The cellblock behind was three stories high with rows of cells along opposite sides numbering sixty or greater on each floor. A circular metal stairway rose on either end with a metal walkway connecting them across the fronts of the cells on the second and third floors. The space on the ground floor separating the two facing rows of cells was no more than twenty feet across and had several benches bolted to the floor in a haphazard array, with two similarly secured small tables and a half dozen chairs around each. That none of it was meant for comfort was easy to see.